


Smooth

by sddeer



Category: Mass Effect
Genre: F/M, One Shot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-27
Updated: 2012-12-27
Packaged: 2017-11-22 15:25:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,210
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/611312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sddeer/pseuds/sddeer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>ME2: Garrus believes Thane has won Shepard’s heart through his mastery over words, ponders (obsesses), and analyzes his perceived shortcomings.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Smooth

If Garrus understood the term correctly, it was becoming more and more apparent that Thane was “smooth.”

Which didn’t make any sense, seeing as the drell had scales, frills, ridges, and muscles, but since when did human words actually convey what they meant, anyway?

Regardless, a sharp pain wormed its way through Garrus’ gizzard each time he saw Thane tilt his head ever so much to track Shepard with his eyes and she returned his gaze with the barest hint of a smile. He would guess that her expression held suppressed embarrassment, like Thane was thinking something and she didn’t want him to voice it. Declaration of love, surely. When the assassin spoke to her, it was like he was composing some holy text from their interactions. It made him sick.

It also reminded him of that krogan reciting poetry to his girlfriend. His words, well-meant, tumbled out gracelessly and fell flat on the asari’s ears. They’d seen him earlier that month, or maybe a year ago, or several, and that’s how it was with Shepard: he couldn’t keep track of time. She lived within a singularity, and every moment he was with her happened at once and lasted forever, permanently burning into his memories each thought and each sensation down to every last nerve in his body.

And Thane continued to speak in his own flowery manner, which made Garrus wonder why he couldn’t command words like he could troops and guns. There was a period of about two weeks during which he wheeled words round and round in his head, trying to splice in imagery and lore with little luck and even less ease. For some reason, telling Shepard that every glimpse he caught of her red hair was like a biotic bolt crackling through his armor and wedging its way in between his ribs couldn’t hold a flame to warrior angels and sunset eyes born of an eidetic memory.

Why couldn’t words and social graces be like holding a rifle? He could remove his reinforced gloves and slip his fingers over its surface, talons catching on each nick and scratch, tips of his fingers dipping into dents, and the residual heat from his last shot would scorch him if he had been soft and uncalloused. Thane was well-trained and well-armed, but when it came to setting up headshots and pressing the Mantis back against his shoulder before pulling the trigger, Garrus was the “smooth” one. But his arsenal did not include words and human-esque body language as Thane’s did.

Research on the extranet had revealed the phrase “make love” as a euphemism for acts of physical intimacy. Confusing. Humans were so damn verbose, but he was determined to replay the term in his mind until it sunk in. In his previous encounters—mostly during his time with C-Sec—intimacy was sex and power, not lust as much as it was control: fuck them with their backs to him and faces against a wall, hearing them scream his name in delight and defeat before allowing them to come. His talons dug into the sides and haunches of an impressive number of female turians over the years, and not a single one was left disappointed. Garrus remained stoic throughout, ever their superior (though a surprising portion of the women greatly outranked him as a security officer). It was physical release, a power game, nothing more.

But with Shepard he would willingly whisper and moan her name, begging, pleading for her—and he did just that when it was dark and he was alone. He imagined her soft curves molding around his plated skin, and while he wasn’t certain of the particulars, he knew that humans functioned similarly to turians. He would work his fingers around himself, and they transformed into her body as he moved to please her, not to prove his prowess as he did with his former flings, but to feel her chest heaving and heart pounding, to bring her to the edge and back until she finally shuddered with an orgasm. With her red lips mouthing permission, he joined her, spending himself on his hands, falling back to the reality in which his fingers were slick with his saliva and seed and not with her excitement. He hadn’t “made love” to her, for she would have to love him in the first place for that to happen.

Then there were the days. He would be forced to watch Thane sidle closer after a glance at Garrus, lower his head and his voice as though they were sharing a secret, and he could see the subtle flush of Shepard’s cheeks, which despite his best efforts, he could never reproduce in his conversations with her. He would sing her love songs, paint the stars for her, if only he could. But Garrus was left only to calibrate the Thanix cannon and mod her weapons; it was his only poetic act, and its beauty went unmentioned. When she thought nobody was looking, a gentle stroke across Thane’s arm or touch of his hand made Garrus reel. He always averted his gaze when she did; he always missed her green eyes flitting from Thane to him, catching a glimpse of him when he was looking away.

In spite of his best efforts to grant her privacy in his thoughts, sometimes he saw Shepard in his mind’s eye, naked and sweating, head thrown back in ecstasy as Thane flicked his tongue against her, worshipping her like another of his goddesses, which was entirely unfair because Garrus had never even had one goddess to begin with—only spirits, worthless spirits, with no promise of paradise or beaches. These unbidden images were not so easily deterred. The thought of Shepard’s legs locked around Thane’s waist, teeth sinking into frill, fingers grabbing, searching, hungry to touch every inch of his skin, and Garrus could barely bite back a groan of desire.

And he read on the extranet about what humans called “heaven” and decided Shepard must be it. The casual thrumming of the equipment in the Main Battery melted away when he was working in the middle of the night, suddenly assaulted with the idea of her many, deft fingers skating those delicate nails along the underside of his fringe, her supple skin being scratched by his plating, punctured by his talons if he wasn’t careful. Calibrations would fall to the wayside in such events, a raspy breath accompanying the closing of his eyes.

It was unfair to think of her in such a way, but Garrus had never before obsessed over a woman and was unable to repress the fervent thoughts. Resigned to his fate, he would excuse himself and retreat to a private place, allowing the images to wash over him in the vain hope that they would tumble and polish him until he, too, was “smooth.” But the stitch in his side let him know that he was running in circles, and so he stayed away, resolved always to be in the middle of some calibrations from there on out, and if he spoke, to speak lightly. In Thane’s world, all was poetry and allusions, but in his world, everything had a punchline.

If only he could blow off some steam.

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: I may do a companion piece(s) from Thane and/or Shepard's perspective, but unless inspiration strikes me particularly hard, it will go on the back burner of writing to accomplish. Suffice it to say that Garrus' perceptions are not entirely accurate, though I'm hoping I managed to effectively convey that enough for it to stand on its own without companion pieces. Thus, it stands as a one-shot.


End file.
